


Understanding, or Lack-Thereof

by mlmc



Category: Mortal Kombat (Video Games), Mortal Kombat - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Fighting, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minor Violence, Recovery, Training, but no real violence; just imaginary and brief, hanzo is sad, i can't think much in this needs any warning, set during the Great Hanzo Recovery Period
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-09 14:03:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19889032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mlmc/pseuds/mlmc
Summary: For some time now, Hanzo had observed Kenshi every day; very closely, very acutely. In all these days of their loosely-formed travelling duo they’ve created — although it may be better described as Hanzo’s hitchhiking alongside a bizarre, nomadic swordsman he’s found by pure chance, and whom just so happened to be the most understanding person he’d known in his life — not a single mystery about him had come with any real answers following. He was juststrange.





	Understanding, or Lack-Thereof

For some time now, Hanzo had observed Kenshi every day; very closely, very acutely. In all these days of their loosely-formed travelling duo they’ve created — although it may be better described as Hanzo’s hitchhiking alongside a bizarre, nomadic swordsman he’s found by pure chance, and whom just so happened to be the most understanding person he’d known in his life — not a single mystery about him had come with any real answers following. He was just _strange_. He’s accompanied the man to many middle-of-nowheres, watched him train, exist in the motions of surviving alone, his silent meditation, without a trace of any of the many stresses Hanzo had seen in his mortal life. 

He marveled at it. He still marveled what changes he’d seen in his life already. Just months ago, this reality seemed an impossible dream. After so long of knowing only hellish rage consuming him whole, a _being_ which had corrupt him so fully that a self from before may very well have never existed.. the thought of relief from this agony, an end to the endless, had been no more than a hope only existing to torture him further, so far out of reach that to try and grab it would be laughable. He forgot life without misery.

Nowadays, the realization came suddenly to him that he spent more time thinking about the swordsman than he did himself. 

At the very top of his list of most bizarre people to have met, was the place of Kenshi. There were so many things he couldn’t place a finger on. Even his dialect, on the odd time he has spoken Japanese, was one Hanzo couldn’t place. He almost spoke as if he barely knew the language, though there was little flaw in his grammar or vocabulary, if not with the sense that his language seemed displaced in time. 

“You have much on your mind?” 

The very subject of his thoughts startled him to attention, eyes darting from their idle stare on the nondescript ground to the swordsman’s half-covered face some many feet away from him. Kenshi had paused — for how long, Hanzo did not notice — allowing himself a lull in his morning training, Sentō lowered, and now he looked to his companion, who sat listless in the shade of a timber tree. 

Hanzo frowned. Typically, he _scowls_ at those kinds of mental invasions, for he had never considered an _interloper_ to be welcome in his own mind, and even with Kenshi he was far from comfortable with such a concept — but he did not yet have it in him, in this moment, to gather an anger. Rebuilding the wall around his dispersed thoughts, as far as he knew how to, he gave an meagerly indignant huff in retort. 

An attempt to lie now would be moot. “Where exactly are you from, swordsman?” 

Kenshi, falling completely into casual, swung his sword round until it pointed to the Earth, stabbing its point into the soil, holding the very base of the handle in the round of his palm. His other arm came to his hip. He didn’t _lean_ on it for respect of his talisman, but he looked as if he might for how he held it. Hanzo noticed, even from here, there’s a little quirk to his lip. “Think of my name, and I’ll give you one guess.” 

Hanzo’s expression was no more than unamused, a displeased twitch of his features, and he made such _equally_ evident in his tone as he replied, with intent, “I chose my words carefully, Kenshi.” 

“As always.” As much as he may pretend, the swordsman was not daft. Kenshi plucked his sword up again from its short-lived cane purpose, and presently, he resumed that warm-up which he’d abandoned, turning half away. Hanzo was not so foolish to believe that he simply had no time to spare for conversation. Rather, he hedged, as he always did. 

He had no clue whether Keshi was still in his head or not, but the man did not make him press. “I’ve asked myself that question many times,” Kenshi confessed, simple and thoughtful and direct. With so, he moved a half-step ahead and he thrust his sword out, another step lower to the ground and he drew his sword back and stretched out a flat hand in a wide arc around himself, his slim black suit hindering no movement — Sentō remained steady, like its wielder, and more precisely parallel to the Earth than surely any other blind man could attempt.

To any individual unfamiliar in martial arts, skill would not be apparent in how he presented this warm-up. It’s not fast, each movement is made with great patience, but with great _deliberacy_ ; Hanzo could see it in every moment. He could see the strength in his legs with each balanced, _slow_ step. When Kenshi drove his sword upwards, Hanzo would picture it through one imaginary abdomen, under the ribcage, through vitalities, almost certain in its fatality. The swivel of his blade back out, brandished in a swing to his left, was sharp and solid — and a revolution of outstretched arm, more theatric than strictly necessary, that would clean slice one’s skull or neck through. That particular impression is is a little more than _almost_ certain, of course. 

What gored lives they lead. 

He recognized a Chinese influence in this set, not unlike those first roots of the Shirai style; but distinctly different from any taijichuan or other practice he knew. For all Hanzo’s knowledge, Kenshi adhered to no strict rule of fighting style, and certainly to no sense of tradition. But he made it _look_ like a style nonetheless, like something that Hanzo simply couldn’t put his tongue to, and such was _ever_ frustrating.

Kenshi jerked his hand up and let go; the blade went up too, a short distance, until the bidding of a gesture halted it. It hovered there, haloed by a subtle blue glow, and with its wielder’s hands it moved

His awareness was _extremely_ acute, Hanzo couldn’t fail to notice. The blade did not waver, there was no hint of uncertainty in its movement; it spun in a clean, precise circle. Hanzo’s eyes were drawn to Kenshi’s hands once that awe wore off, and a new one was born. Practiced, delicate, his shoulder shifted between tension and lucidity, but his hands acted only in smooth and slow motions. The years were evident. His ribs rose and fell deeply. The command he held on his telepathy was to be admired even by those who could not know its difficulty. 

Hanzo found that, in the time he had been watching Kenshi’s wrists so closely, as if able to absorb his ability through the mere visual, the other man stopped already before he noticed. With a swift pull of his right hand, the blade drew back into his grip like a magnet. He slid it back delicately into its leather sheath. Then, he looked right at Hanzo, almost expectantly.

Summer bugs buzzed their appreciation in harmonious disharmony from the distance, lurking unseen in the forest edge, a continuous applause for the performance. _They_ remained unbothered by the incessant heat.

There still was no comfortable place Hanzo had found to look on Kenshi’s face when his eyes remained wrapped up by an opaque strip of red. Kenshi was not shy in this regard; he did not limit himself to looking away from people, for their sake or for his. Hanzo settled his gaze between upon his lips as he spoke, and someplace in the middle of the blindfold, like he might have a third eye there. 

“I was born in the south. Kagoshima prefecture,” he continued, crossing the short space to sit across from where Hanzo diligently guarded their belongings, amongst the cooler and dewed grass. “Although, my parents sent me to Kyoto as a child for training, for a short time, then to a teacher in Mongolia when I was, maybe, eight.” 

_Well_. ‘South’ was clearly no word to be taken lightly. Not to take away from the peculiarity of Mongolia, either — of any more _populated_ or _advanced_ place in the world to be chosen. Unusually fitting to his person, as he thought about it. 

One brow raised, Hanzo mused aloud, “You don’t sound like you’re from Kyūshū.”

Kenshi gave a slight, angled nod of his head, considering and agreeing. “I only spoke the language as my first as a young child, so I suppose I don’t speak with the dialect.” 

“Mm. You went to Mongolia when you were eight?” 

Kenshi nodded silently. 

“Do you speak Mongolian, then?”

His lips turned up into a crooked smile, which Hanzo understood was a reserved substitute for a laugh. Come to think of it… had Hanzo heard him laugh at all yet? Surely once or twice — surely? 

“Not well,” he said, “I could always understand more than I could speak, but I doubt I can do either today. Practice is scarce.” 

“Were either of your parents Mongolian?” 

“Some. I don’t think anyone in my family would know much of their composition at all; my lineage has been migrating and mixing for a long time.” 

Hanzo shifted his legs crossed, thinking uneasily on all he’d just received. More information than he’d ever been given at once. That would explain some.. not only of the man’s particular cultural _irrelevance_ , but on his strange personality as well. After not long at all, Hanzo began to see this habit in him, of an aloof nature arising in quite convenient intervals. New branches added to that map of person he held in his mind; it seemed likely that Kenshi lived not with Mongolians, but with his mentor alone, in the vastly unoccupied, nomadic land that the country was known to be. From eight years old? How extreme..

Had Jubei lived longer than he had, Hanzo wasn’t sure what age he may have put him into a serious training. Maybe to start around five or eight as well, but not sent half-way across the continent. Of course he wouldn’t have _coddled_ his son for sentimentality — but now, he’d rather nothing more than to never make him work a day in his life, never to train in death like the rest of them, never to have a worry on his mind. 

It’s too late for any of that, anyway. They were all gone. 

Hanzo took a slow breath, watching the unmoving ground once more, the stray ant which climbed upon a blade of grass, while that familiar _wretchedness_ crept upon himself. What nerve he had to wish… 

“This doesn’t satisfy you?” Kenshi cut in. 

Hanzo looked up, but not far enough to his face; only as far as his hands, observing the intricacy of his leather gloves. “Hardly,” replied Hanzo, as he rose restlessly from what was so comfortable and relaxed a position just a minute ago. A fog settled in his mind, that began to clear away some fraction, as he reminded himself to breath fresh air. 

“You waste too much of your time on these exercises,” he declared, stern and matter-of-fact, although he didn’t believe the statement. His chin was raised once more, and his expression stone-like, as he rolled his shoulders and his neck like a preparation ritual. “If you might find me a _worthy_ opponent, then let us _spar_ for your warm ups. We shall see if your Mongolian training is better than my Shirai-ryū.” 

Anything to get this feeling out of him. Any distraction.

Kenshi didn’t answer immediately, nor change position much; as if, the instant it came from his lips, he had already caught onto Hanzo’s lie. Or _lies_ , in the plural, for this was neither particularly one- nor two-dimensional. Few things were so simple for him. The swordsman only watched a moment, lip pulled to the side, as Hanzo approached with an indifferent façade and an urge rattling in his mind. 

Then, he bowed his head in acceptance, and rose. “Very well.” 

Sentō was lifted from his back, and he ducked to pull the strap over the breadth of his shoulders. With greater care than Hanzo saw most swords treated — and which he appreciated the sight of, as a swordfighter himself — Kenshi bent to place it on the ground delicately, and wrapped within its own sash. 

They both readied themselves. Kenshi set his gravity in a widened, lowered stance, raising his hands; Hanzo promptly followed suit, and saw their immediate differences. Even their resting positions were far from the same: Hanzo stood according to Shirai-ryū practice, Kenshi stood as his amalgam of _things_ he may have studied on his travels. Hanzo’s fingers were curled, not yet fists; Kenshi’s were open, wide apart, fingers lifted. Most obvious, to one agile eye, was his position that would allow for _movement_ , lacking rigidity but more than prepared. Clearly, fluidity was of utmost importance to him. 

Hanzo already knew of his upper hand, for the unspoken premise of _nothing beyond physical ability_ gave an advantage to the one most physically fit, not abstract in ability. And truthfully, between the two of them? There was very little denying which that was. Kenshi was taller by several centimeters, and perhaps more sound of mind, but Hanzo’s arms were nearly twice the width of Kenshi’s own. 

Were this a battle in _swordsmanship_ , there was little doubt in Hanzo’s mind that while he may stand a very good chance at being a formidable opponent, he would not arise victorious. Alas. 

“Ready?” he asked. 

“As ever.” 

“Let’s begin.”

Hanzo, struck by sudden bravado, attacked first and immediately. But he’s predictable, and Kenshi predicts him. 

He forgot these, too. Lighthearted, simple sparring, where no one fought for their life or to take another. It was a little like a dance in a way—back and forth, each of them trading off the upper hand like a relay race. They _are_ both professionals. Hanzo’s blows landed hard and staggered Kenshi well, but he kept on his feet expertly, and fought back in parries and quick transitions from defense to offense. He dodged well, so Hanzo remained ever moving forward. 

He knew of Kenshi’s penchant for _sly_ moves, being that he is a sly _person_ , but he had that thought so stuck in his head that at some point along the way, he forgot to look for it. Kenshi pulled a unique move amidst it all — and Hanzo may be ashamed to say he’d been taken off guard, if he were so honest. Which, he wasn’t. 

As Hanzo's tight fist darted forward to Kenshi's face and faced an expected dodge, Kenshi _trapped_ his wrist within the confines of his bicep and forearm, holding Hanzo’s limb against his own shoulder. Simple enough, and hardly difficult to break free of? His reactionary response was to strike with his leg into Kenshi’s stomach; but the other expected it, and he never got so far.

Before he knew it, Kenshi's other arm had darted to Hanzo's opposite waist, and not only spun him around, but wedged a knee behind his back as well. It became clear that the strength in Kenshi’s thighs was not without purpose, for Hanzo has hit the ground in a moment, one arm pinned behind his back and his shoulder twisted at a nervous angle. The other man's weight pressed firmly down on his back did no favors for his lungs, either.

Wasting breath on a groan, his shoulder burned with strain. His spite was more fueled by defeat; pain was little more than background noise to him these days, but to fall to a mere wrestler's play? There was a time when even his peers would seldom beat him.

“I must say, my proficiency in the sword is better than my physical combat.” Although out of breath, and his neck dripped sweat from the heat, Kenshi spoke with an unbidden nonchalance. He continued their discussion with no trace of hesitation. _Mocking_. 

Hanzo asked, in all his difficult position, “Who did you train under in Kyoto?”

“Nobody of importance. I don't think I recall the name.”

As he spoke, Kenshi gave the slightest way, as if almost assuming his own part to be done; almost calling the match complete. Hanzo, on the other hand, was not so finished. 

In swift, he twisted his shoulder just that he could roll without breaking it, turning his left _into_ Kenshi and breaking his balance before his sentence was even finished. His legs were still very much free, and no ten-second rule applied in this ring. With a swing, he had hooked the under of his knee across Kenshi's back. 

The roles were switched with impressive ease. Hanzo above, a tensed forearm pressed to Kenshi’s neck with little kindness, a knee in his sternum, one hand holding one of Kenshi's own to the dirt—and Kenshi, with the wind knocked out of *him*, choked on the impact. The man sputtered helplessly beneath him.

Hanzo’s victory was certain. “Idle chatter will gain you no ground in battle,” he said with complacent caution, and smug warning. 

Strangely, as though in a flash back, he’d been briefly and suddenly reminded of his old childhood days. So long ago now, memories of ‘grand battles’ in grassy patches not unlike this one arose, with any Shirai-ryū of similar age to him. Boys wrestling with only a semblance of a real fighting technique, only vague impressions of their lessons in the backs of their minds. Fights their parents or teachers would interrupt with words quite like the ones Hanzo spoke nowadays. 

How far he had come since then. For better, or worse. 

“Yield.” 

Kenshi was far more willing to accept defeat, and tapped his tricep with his only free hand in signal.

Hanzo released him on the feeling. There was a burn in his shoulder (and a weaker one ever present in his heart) but his limbs were looser, and his muscles itched no more once he stood. 

Kenshi made a sound somewhere between a cough and a chuckle, rubbing at his neck. “When I train alone, nobody crushes my esophagus,” he pointed out, tone just on the edge of gruff. Feeling some pity for him, Hanzo stood over top him and reached a hand out, helping him up kindly. 

“What master was it that taught you? His name?” 

“You would not have known of him. He's not alive anymore, anyway.” 

The frown in his features deepened. He wondered whether Kenshi could read his frustration, and if he was so adverse on purpose. He pushed further. 

“This telepathy of yours; can you hear anything at all? Anyone’s thoughts, anytime?”

“Of course not. Everything has limitations. It certainly is hard to read minds whilst doing something else at the same time. I can’t think of any bad guy in the world and happen to tune into his mind as he’s thinking of the exact details of his evil plan.

“But, every day could hold a surprise. Who knows. There’s some thoughts and feelings that I _must_ hear, because they’re so loud. _You’re_ so loud, I couldn’t avoid you if I’d wanted to.”

Despite how that squeezed his heart so — which, he now wondered if such a thing was a ‘loud’ enough feeling for Kenshi to sense too — he scoffed and rolled his eyes at being victim to seemingly _endless_ quips. “Are you ready, now, to continue travelling?” asked he, rolling his shoulders. 

Kenshi nodded shortly and replied lightheartedly, raising one hand to massage his throat, “After that, I worry for my well-being if I should say ‘no’.” He gathered his sword once more, strapping the ancient talisman over his shoulder and back that it may be safely on his person once more. 

Although, while he collected his bag and sparse things left in the grass, Kenshi had, once more, taken on an odd attitude — _quiet._ Not the most particularly unusual thing, but it aroused Hanzo’s suspicion. Or _concern_ , for a better word. Surely he was no sore loser? No fighter could afford to be, in their line of work. What was it that occupied his mind?

Going on a limb and a feeling, no plan of direction, Hanzo called out, “Kenshi?”

Without fail, the man looked up with raised brows, offering a brief _hmm?_ in response. Hanzo watched him for a moment, scanning over his body. All seemed well, aside from a newly-born curiosity and puzzlement of _Hanzo_ in turn. 

Realizing _he_ was now the one out of place, Hanzo shrugged his own inquiry off dismissively, and tried to… _make something up_. “Nothing. I was only thinking… you would have done well with the Shirai-ryū.” 

Birds chittered their awakening above him, and their sudden, noisy presence only served to make Hanzo more nervous for a response.

A quirk of the lip, an easy crooked smile; and a trace of apologetic in it, offered out of politeness. “Perhaps,” he answered, no worry in his voice. “Maybe one day we will see. You would make a good leader for a new Shirai-ryū, you know.”

Hanzo dug his thumb into his palm, running a groove in there, and shook his head. “I couldn't.” 

Kenshi slung his duffel over his arm, and clasped Hanzo kindly on the muscle connecting his neck and shoulder. A small something stirred in him as the blind man looked at him; a kind of hope he couldn't quite identify, presently, but knew before somewhere in the subconscious. “I believe you could. You're a formidable fighter, Hanzo — and a good man. Only you hold yourself back.” 

Hanzo’s nose crinkles slightly in displeasure. Unbridled compliments are a foreign thing he is not yet friendly towards. If only to get Kenshi to stop looking at him — ’looking’ at him, _of course,_ — he pulled his own gaze somewhere nondescript and hums his consideration.

Later, much later, as the man recounted their conversations of the day, Hanzo realized he had been swooned well out of his interrogation. A little swell of indignation rose in him. If he’d heard a chuckle from Kenshi, then, he couldn’t be certain whether it was so or simply a noise he imagined out of the wind.


End file.
